


Soldier, King and Thrall

by frickincheng



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Freeform, Gen, Nazgûl | Ringwraiths, Origin Story, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Rings of Power, Second Age, Speculation, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28141986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frickincheng/pseuds/frickincheng
Summary: A stream of consciousness detailing the long path from man to wraith.Warnings for blood and generally disturbing imagery.
Kudos: 2





	Soldier, King and Thrall

He remembers it like it was yesterday, like now, like tomorrow.

_“Here._ ” A proffered hand, skin milk-white, but striped with callouses. A smile accompanied it, a gift as well.

“ _What is it?_ ” His own question, though it was only a formality, he knew what it was, knew it even before it was offered, could hear it humming, softly, singing to him, trapped in its velvet pouch.

At first his answer was a laugh, soft and tinkling and in the stranger’s eyes, knowledge lurking in golden depths. But just like him, the stranger played the game as well, replying, “ _Whatever you wish._ ”

Slowly, he wet lips, song ringing in his ears as he asked the more important question. “ _Why?_ ”

He received yet another laugh, and the stranger took another step closer, and then another, close enough that warm breath puffed against his cheek, the warm scent of lilac swirling around him. “ _I’ve seen you. I’ve seen how you are trapped. It senses it as well, can’t you hear it keening? It wants to help you.”_

There had been more words after that, but it didn’t matter. Not with his heart beating to the rhythm of the ring’s song. It slid on as it were made for him... and perhaps it had been. Thick jet, shot through with veins of silver, set with a white stone that drank the sun’s light, warm as a lover’s touch.

~*~

He had always controlled men’s loyalty, accomplished captain that he was, but now they flocked to him, their faces upturned, eyes shining and eager. Their ranks swelled, their chants and cheers filling him to his bones, ringing in his ears,

“S-” _what was his name, what had they called him, was it a name, a title, a rank, a wish? Who had he been, what-_

They followed him. They died for him.

~*~

He sang while he fought. His voice, sweet and rolling over every inch of the battlefield. It filled his men’s heart with courage, and made his enemies cower. He rode them down, a scythe cutting through chaff, black plate chased in silver, a high helm atop his head. His ring was worn underneath his gloves, warm, soft and crooning, and it sang with him... though only he could hear it.

In the end it was swift, and decisively done. He broke the ranks of the royal guard, flanked only by his standard bearer, leaping from his horse to face his king. He laughed then as he sang, his sword a whirl and deadly flurry. None could stand up to him, especially not this so-called king, who clamped his hands over his ears, screaming, “ _Make it stop, please-”_ as blood welled past his clenching fingers.

He cut out his king’s heart, sword steaming.

~*~

The king had a daughter, lovely and wise, and when he came to her, her father’s blood staining his skin, she did not shrink away. She knelt to him, slim fingers spread over the back of his hand, and when her lips brushed against his ring, he shuddered as if it were his own flesh.

~*~

He ruled from a throne carved of jet, a simple silver circlet over his brow.

~*~

The king’s daughter bore him sons and daughters both and was as wise as they all had said. Her loveliness faded, though slowly, crow’s feet slowly crinkling at the edges of her eyes, her body softening, her hands careworn.

He had not changed, though he checked every morning as he placed the circlet over his brow, smiling.

~*~

The king’s daughter died, and so he got a second wife, and then a third because he desired it. His sons were growing older, one as old as he had been when he had gotten his gift. He could see the ambition gleaming in the blue eyes of his eldest, sharp as the edge of a knife and ravenous.

It reminded him of his own eyes, as they had been, and disquiet filled him.

The ring had stopped singing. It whispered now, softly giving him advice, sometimes sounding like the king’s daughter, sometimes sounding like himself, and very rarely, sometimes like the stranger.

~*~

His son, strong and hale, now with his own small son told him that it was a family heirloom. That it had been long, too long, that he was getting greedy, that he was getting decedent _._ That it was _time_. His son held out a hand, blue eyes blazing.

“ _Give it up._ ”

He laughed then. Laughed and laughed and laughed until he was choking, bent and doubled over.

“ _It will never be yours pup!_ ”

The dagger was swift; he had made sure that all his sons were trained well, but the ring was swifter, the stranger whispering its warning. The edge caught the underside of his jaw instead of his throat, laying flesh open to bone. His son was shouting, weeping, but he heard nothing, even as the guards moved with his son, more blades coming up.

But he always listened to his ring, and the blades shredded his tunic, turning against the mail that lay hidden underneath.

He killed them all, his son last of all.

~*~

He killed the rest, after. All his children, all of them _traitors,_ for how could they not have known? And if they hadn’t known, then surely they would have coveted it as well...though it was _his._ His wives were next, whispering snakes, coordinating together. After all they had both said that he needed to speak with his son...

Their blood ran down his hands, steaming hot, and he stroked his ring, breath rasping in his throat.

~*~

He was tired. He looked at himself, his skin still smooth, jaw still strong. He leaned in, and his eyes glinted back, golden. _Had they always been golden? His son’s eyes were blue, bright and blue, hard, hungry-_

He was unaged. There was no reason for this bone-deep weariness. He placed his crown upon his brow, hand dropping down to gently rub at his ring.

~*~

He had tried warring, the roar of the battle, his men around him ( _who were they, he didn’t know these men, the men he knew had all died_ ). But he couldn’t sing, and without it the battle was so _quiet_ , just the scream of the dead and dying, ally and foe alike.

He didn’t sing, he screamed. Screamed until his voice was raw, until blood flew from his lips, killing any and all who dared approach him, blind to their allegiance ( _traitors enemies all_ ). And still, even then when his voice finally left him, when he was glutted on blood and carnage, he couldn’t fill it. The gnawing emptiness just grew inside him, scratching at his ribs, whining piteously.

He had never hated himself until that point.

~*~

He stared at the mirror, at golden eyes, at a face still youthful, but somehow…lesser. He was there, but he _wasn’t_. Someone’s fevered dream. Someone’s _nightmare_. He smashed the mirror, shards flying, slashing through his hands, though no blood flew.

The ring laughed.

~*~

He tried to take it off. But every time his fingers tightened around the band, he found himself stroking it, whispering to it soothingly. As always, it whispered back. He felt it, a tug in his heart, pulling, pulling, pulling.

_“Come away. You’ve had your time, you’re better than this, better than this kingdom, come, come come to me and I shall crown you in fire.”_

He told himself it was stubbornness and not fear that kept him here locked away in his own tower.

~*~

He no longer needed to eat, so he didn’t. He no longer needed to drink, so he didn’t. He heard the hammering on the other side of his door, heavy nails driving into thick oaken planks, the thud of stone.

He laughed, the sound softer than a breeze, too quiet to be heard over the sounds of them entombing him in his tower.

~*~

“ _Come to me._ ” It was the voice of the stranger, the voice of his ring. But it was no longer a croon, but command, hard, unyielding. “ _Come to me, my servant, and I’ll clothe you in flesh once more._ ”

And then he realized he had been tricked. He had never been a king, only a fool in a crown, and now nothing more than a shadow. He raged, and he wept and he clutched at his ring.

And he obeyed.


End file.
